


Best-Laid Plans

by AwkwardAnnie



Series: Sickle and Harvest [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Birthday Party, Friendship, Gen, Humor, M/M, Matchmaking, Romance, Too Much Singing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3436271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardAnnie/pseuds/AwkwardAnnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charged with organising a birthday party for Bard's youngest daughter but baffled as to where to begin, Thranduil calls on Elrond for help, who dispatches his best and brightest (and Lindir) to assist. But before they can do anything about a party, they need to sort out whatever it is that's going on between the Elvenking and the Lord of Dale...</p><p>Sequel to A Heart Unburdened</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a game is played and a promise is made.

It started, as things are wont to do, over a bottle of wine.

The monthly meetings had begun as a matter of convenience; in the aftermath of the Battle, there was much to discuss and to organise and to agree, and such issues were more easily dealt with face-to-face. The decision to alternate between the halls of the Wood and the slowly reconstructed Dale was likewise one of utility, and to demonstrate to the people of both kingdoms physical evidence of the accord between them. Bard had suggested it, Thranduil had agreed immediately and it was settled.

But as summer waxed and the days grew longer, the list of things requiring attention grew shorter in turn. Their talk began to wander away from political matters and onto every other topic under the sun, though the favourites were those about which both parties had strong and frequently opposing views. Bard relayed all the minutiae of life in Dale; plans for the rebuilding, everyday gossip and scandal, and the many and varied adventures of his offspring, of which Bain's enthusiastic but often embarrassing attempts to learn swordsmanship were a particular highlight. In return, Thranduil talked guardedly of the comings and goings of Mirkwood, though in truth little changed under its dark branches even after the emptying of Dol Guldur.

Finally, on the meeting before Midsummer's Day Bard brought to Thranduil's halls a board and a set of carved wooden pieces and taught the Elvenking to play Orc And Eagles, and both had to admit that there was no longer anything diplomatic about their meetings.

(In addition, Bard was forced to admit that he was not as good at Orc And Eagles as he had deemed himself.)

As to the wine, neither of them could remember who was responsible for the first occasion, though both would if pressed name the other as the perpetrator, yet it became likewise an expected tradition for the one visiting to bring a bottle or two, the better to prompt political discourse (and, later, to addle the wits of an opponent enough to secure a win in the game of choice).

So it was that, in the half-finished hall of the Lord of Dale, on a mild evening drawing near the end of summer, roughly halfway down the second bottle, Bard said, "It's Tilda's birthday in a month and I still have not done a thing to prepare."

Thranduil looked up from the board between them, where he had been considering his next move with all the tight-lipped sobriety of a general commanding his army. They had moved on from Orc And Eagles to _Gedyr Adh Emlyg_ , an Elvish game as intriguing as it was fiendishly complicated. At the present moment, Bard had been backed ruthlessly into one corner of the board, and while he had taken several of Thranduil's stronger pieces he'd lost his own Wyvern to his complete inability to remember how Ice-drakes moved. Unless he came up with a cunning plan it would be only a matter of time before he was vanquished completely.

"The years pass swifter than ever," said Thranduil, and he moved one of his two remaining Champions to threaten Bard's lone Serpent. "I still marvel that you mark them at all."

"You cannot tell me that Elves do not celebrate birthdays." Bard was left with a dilemma. The diagonal movement of the Serpent made it one of the more mobile pieces and he was loath to lose it, but allowing Thranduil to pursue it might buy him time to manoeuvre his Ballista into a position where he could break the siege and take down his opponent's High Dragon. It was risky, and the Ballista could be fired only once, but he was running out of options.

"After the first hundred, they begin to remind us that the world around us changes ever as we endure. Some prefer to avoid this."

Bard could feel Thranduil's eyes boring into him as he studied the board. He suspected this to be an intimidation tactic; if so, it was extremely effective. In the end, he sent one of his Ravens further up the board and left the Serpent to Thranduil's not noticeably tender mercy. Then he looked up and met the Elvenking's eyes. "And what about you?"

Thranduil gave a careless shrug. "A moot point," he said lightly. "I cannot remember the date of my birthday." And while Bard was busy looking shocked at this declaration, he leaned over and captured the wayward Serpent, setting it in front of him like a trophy with one long finger resting atop its curved head. "Do not grieve for me," he continued. "After six thousand of them, the novelty wears off."

"Six thousand," echoed Bard faintly. For all that the Elvenking had become something almost akin to a friend, there was yet this great gulf stretching between them, and at times he still felt very young and foolish by comparison. Then he sighed and moved one of his Oliphaunts into the space vacated by his Raven. "Tilda will be twelve."

Thranduil's brow quirked upwards, though whether he was surprised at Bard's words or his actions was unclear. It was certainly an odd move to stray so far north, for the Oliphaunt could not cross the River running through the centre of the board, and for a moment Bard feared he had erred and exposed his plan ahead of time. But then Thranduil said, with the slightest of smirks, "Twelve? For all her wisdom I had thought her a hundred at least," and Bard felt himself relax. He was safe for now.

"I should charge you for her counsel," he said. "A silver penny a word, plus expenses."

"And I would pay it gladly, even were I forced to relinquish every ounce of gold under my branches." The rosewood figure of the Champion edged a little closer to Bard's fortifications, while at the other end of the board Thranduil's High Dragon lurked and waited behind the fell shape of the eccentrically moving Ice-drake. Any forces sallying forth now would be met with a swift and merciless death. "There is talk in my halls that they are proposing to crown you. That would make her a princess, would it not?"

"The way she talks, you would think her one already!"

Thranduil's mouth twitched in what Bard was slowly coming to recognise as a smile. "Will there be a feast?"

"If there were, would you come?"

"Would I be invited?" It was ever their way, at these meetings, to answer question with question, sometimes continuing for many minutes until one became so frustrated as to give a straight reply.

"It would please her greatly," replied Bard. "She is very fond of you." He looked up just in time to see Thranduil's expression soften, and it seemed such an intimate thing that he looked away immediately and made no mention. Instead, he laid his fingers on the Hare. She was his favourite piece; in open battle she was meek and could capture no piece larger than herself, but she was swift and sure, could cross the River or leap over friendly pieces, and when backed into a corner so that she could not move she could take down any foe—though she herself would be forfeit. She had seriously damaged the enemy Raven population already this game, and he knew Thranduil would not waste an opportunity to remove her from play. So, though it seemed cruel thanks for her aid, he urged her across the board, as though she were looking to cross the River and assault her enemy in his keep, and placed her squarely in the target zone of that wretched Ice-drake. "There will be a feast, at least provided I can organise one and ensure the rest of Dale continues at the same time. Will you come?"

"If you think to distract me with talk of food," said Thranduil, and his voice had regained its cool edge, "then you have drunk too deeply tonight, though I cannot blame you; it is a fine vintage." As if to emphasise his point, he plucked the half-empty bottle from the floor and refilled their glasses. "I will come. Indeed, I would organise the feast myself, if you permit it. As for your Hare, she has fought bravely, but she is betrayed at the last by her own commander. You have once again forgotten about the reach of my Ice-drake." Swept aside, the poor Hare was plucked from the board to sit at last beside her lost fellows.

"Not so," said Bard, and he finally moved the Ballista from behind his second Oliphaunt into the file now cleared of the Ice-drake—and into line of sight of Thranduil's High Dragon. "Yield," he demanded.

Thranduil hissed out a Sindarin curse which turned into a soft chuckle. "Well fought," he conceded, and reached out and laid the High Dragon on its side. "I yield, Dragonslayer."

"I accept your surrender," granted Bard, "and your aid also. I feel I will need it. Tilda will appreciate it, if nothing else. She will be a fine princess, though I make a poor king."

"Few kings can boast to have felled a fire-drake. It seems to me that you have more claim to the title than many." And Thranduil raised his glass. "Leave this to me and I shall see it done."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein advice is sought and a favour is granted.

"I have been foolish, Galion," lamented Thranduil to his beleaguered butler in the privacy of his own chambers, where he was pacing restlessly.

"Indeed, sire?" said Galion, in tones very carefully calculated to suggest that the mere possibility of the king doing anything foolish was beyond consideration.

"A birthday party," Thranduil continued, reaching one end of the room and turning smoothly on his heel to stalk back the other way. "When was the last time I organised a birthday party?"

"I believe it was the year 3429 of the Second Age, sire," offered Galion. "It was your father's. It was very successful."

"I remember," said Thranduil, pausing in his stride. "What happened, that I did not do so again?"

"The year 3430, sire," said Galion meaningfully.

"Ah." Thranduil resumed his pacing, but a little slower.

"May I ask whose birthday you propose to celebrate, sire?"

Thranduil thought he detected the slightest hint of amusement in Galion's usually controlled voice. It was a game they played, of course; they had played it ever since Thranduil had been old enough to demand a third ginger oatcake half an hour before dinner and Galion had been wise enough to refuse, and over the ages they had become very good at it. Thranduil pretended not to know that after hours Galion routinely lost all his money at cards to the head cook, walked into walls when smiled at by the chief guard and could never visit Lothlórien because the last time he had done so, they had discovered him the morning after the feast in a fountain singing a song about a hedgehog. In return, Galion graciously chose not to remind Thranduil of the many hours spent chasing a muddy young Elfling through those very halls armed with a mop, or, indeed, a similar experience repeated some time earlier in different halls with that Elfling's equally muddy but less acrobatic father. Somewhere in the middle they met, not quite master-and-servant, not quite family.

The Elvenking opened his heart to a vanishing few, and Galion was one of them.

"It is Tilda, Bard's daughter," he explained. "She will be twelve years of age in four week's time and I swore to her father I would do this. But I cannot even see where to begin!" He flung his hands up in despair. "What does a mortal child expect of a birthday party? I have lived beside the Men of the Lake for thousands of years and yet I find I know them not at all. But I cannot disappoint the girl. She has done more for me than she can ever possibly know." He turned to Galion then, and desperation was in his eyes. "Please, old friend. You have served my family faithfully for years beyond number, and always your advice has been sound. I have made a promise I cannot keep. What should I do?"

For a moment Galion was silent, and Thranduil feared all hope was lost. Then he said, "Send to Lord Elrond of Imladris."

Thranduil blinked. "To Elrond? Surely even he cannot have a book upon the subject."

"Perhaps not, sire," said Galion with infinite patience. "But he has had a young mortal dwelling under his roof until very recently. He may be able to offer counsel."

"Of course. Arathorn's child." Thranduil could not deny that there was a twinge of pain at the reminder of the young ranger, but it was a dull ache now, and could be borne, especially compared to the much larger discomfort of having to ask Elrond for help with so trivial a task.

Galion nodded encouragingly. "And were you not saying, sire, that you intended to write to Lord Elrond concerning new trade routes only this month?"

Thranduil was not at all sure that he remembered that. It sounded more like something Galion might have said. Still, it was a good idea, and it would certainly make him look less incompetent.

"Very well," he said. "I shall do so now."

"As you wish, sire. I shall have a bird sent up." He turned to leave.

"Galion." The king's voice stayed him at the door.

"Sire?"

"...thank you."

Galion inclined his head graciously and slipped silently out of the room in that curious manner that butlers, valets and other such persons often have. Alone once more, Thranduil sat down at his desk and picked up his quill.

After some time, there was a tap at the window. He rose to open it and in stepped a Raven, which made a show of wiping its feet before it entered.

"Greetings, Lord," it croaked. "I was bidden to carry a message for you to the Valley of Rivendell."

Thranduil frowned. "Many of your kind are known to me, but you I have not met before."

"Indeed, Lord. I am Tarc daughter of Gar son of Roäc," said the Raven with a bob of its black head. "Though your vassal is pleased to call me Cuwôdh."

"My vassal?" Thranduil sat and gestured to the spare chair. "Do you speak of Galion? He would not take kindly to being so called."

"Aye, Lord," replied Cuwôdh, without much contrition, and she perched on the back of the chair. "He speaks with me many a night and we share a little wine, though the water of your cellars is potent for my folk."

"Potent indeed," said Thranduil, rolling the letter. "I thought someone had been at the Dorwinion, thought I might have hoped he had learned his lesson. I have not yet forgiven him for the incident with the Dwarves."

"He knows, Lord, and he would have me remind you that he likewise begrudges you an incident involving your father's best cloak, a water-pail and a First Age battleaxe, and that his grudge is by far longer in standing." Cuwôdh peered at the letter the king was now sealing with wax. "Wherefore do you send to Elrond Halfelven?"

"It concerns a young girl who once did me a great kindness, and I wish now to return the favour." Thranduil tapped the seal to check that the wax had set and was satisfied. "Shall I bind this to your leg?"

"Thank you, Lord, nay," she answered. "I shall grasp it in my foot." And she held out one set of curved talons to receive it.

"The wind be ever under your wings," said Thranduil, in the custom of Birds.

"And the sun ever on your tail," she replied, dipping her head, and with a tremendous rustle of feathers she was gone, out over the forest and into the distance.

  
  


* * *

  
Two days later, in the pleasant valley of Imladris, Lord Elrond held out a strange letter to his chief advisor and asked, "What think you of this, Erestor?"

Erestor took the letter and cast it over. As he read down the page his eyebrows grew closer and closer together until Elrond was sure his face would be stuck in a permanent confused frown for all time.

"This is an unusual request," Erestor said finally. Somehow that didn't quite cover the situation.

"Naturally, I must offer my assistance. One does not waste an opportunity to be owed so great a favour by the Woodland Realm."

"I am not sure I can offer much counsel on this, my lord," admitted Erestor.

"Fortunately, I have already decided exactly what to do." Elrond took a clean sheet of parchment from a drawer. Erestor looked nervous.

"And what is that?"

Elrond smiled beatifically. "I am sending you to Mirkwood," he said pleasantly.

"Me?!" Erestor spluttered. "Why me?"

Still smiling, Elrond unscrewed the lid of his ink pot. "You are a fine organiser. Indeed you have elevated the drudgery of organisation to an art. Who better for the task? Besides, were you not saying that you wished for a holiday?"

"I confess, my lord, that I was picturing somewhere sunnier." _Far Harad, perhaps_ , Erestor added ruefully in his head. Aloud he said, "Am I to go alone?"

"Of course not." Elrond began to write. He was still smiling and it was starting to become unnerving. "Glorfindel will accompany you. This task will appeal to his gallant nature. A young lady in need; how will he resist?"

"How indeed," muttered Erestor with great foreboding.

  
  


"What I don't understand," said Glorfindel the next morning on the road up into the mountains, "is why Lindir is here. Surely they have minstrels in Dale."

Erestor glanced back at the Elf in question, who was lagging behind them on his grey mare, humming a tune and peering at the landscape around him with the fascinated air of the inveterate tourist. "Perhaps it is Lord Elrond's hope that the presence of a third party might prevent us from embarrassing him in front of the Woodland Realm," he said, scepticism looming large in his voice.

"I cannot think of anything more likely to cause embarrassment to Lord Elrond than the possibility of Lindir meeting King Thranduil," said Glorfindel.

"Nor can I," agreed Erestor. "Still, we will not be there more than three weeks. Even Lindir cannot do much damage in so short a time."

From behind them came the gentle _thwack_ and soft whimper of an inattentive Elf being hit in the face by a low-hanging branch.

"However," amended Erestor darkly, "I have been known to misjudge."

  
  


* * *

When Cuwôdh the Raven finally returned to Thranduil's halls bearing Elrond's promise of aid, she found the Elvenking in the middle of a heated debate with the head cook concerning the amount of notice one should be required to give before expecting someone else to provide a feast. The cook's view was that whatever that amount was, Thranduil had not given it, and Thranduil's view was that the cook hadn't required any notice at all to organise an enormous gathering to celebrate the end of the last War and he didn't understand why it was necessary now. Judging by the way the cook was brandishing her wooden spoon, the discussion was just on the verge of becoming an argument. As such, the arrival of Cuwôdh was most opportune.

"This is good news," he told the bird, after the cook had stormed out and he had poured himself a large brandy. "Though I fear I shall now be indebted to Elrond until Dagor Dagorath." He opened one of a set of small drawers and brought forth a small gold brooch set with jet, which he offered to Cuwôdh. "I trust this will recompense you for your trouble."

"My thanks, Lord," she replied, taking it in her claw. "I court Varac son of Carac; this will serve as a fine gift to his sire."

"I have one more request to make, if I may." Thranduil held up another letter. "This is for Bard of Dale."

"I shall see it safely to him," declared Cuwôdh. "Farewell, Lord. I wish you luck in your endeavour."

"I fear I shall need it," he muttered as the Raven departed.

The letter was an invitation, such as had not been issued from the Woodland Realm in many years. While he had been waiting for a reply from Rivendell, Galion had counselled him to ask little Tilda to visit. Galion had called it 'an opportunity to uncover useful information', but Thranduil suspected that—like a lot of people nowadays, it seemed—Galion was also trying to encourage him to be a little more welcoming. He could not deny that the thought of spending three days with the girl warmed a part of his heart he had long given up as frozen solid, and so he had agreed with enthusiasm.

Of course, it would hardly do to invite one member of the family and not the rest, so the invitation was addressed to all, but he knew that the older children were unlikely to be spared for even a couple of days.

Sure enough, when the reply came it was with only one respondent.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein an important guest arrives.

There had been a brief but heated discussion with Galion about the best way to ensure Tilda was safely transported from Dale, and in the end Tirithalen the chief guard and a small band of warriors were dispatched to fetch her on horseback. Thranduil could not remember the last time he had gone down to the gates to meet a visitor personally, but to do anything less now seemed a grievous insult. He was rewarded for his trouble by the most amusing sight of Galion rushing to help Tilda down from her horse and having his hand batted away with a playful jest by Tirithalen, who had moved faster. Tilda, for her part, thanked the guard profusely for the assistance.

"It's all right," she told a very red-faced Galion. "You can help me next time!" Then she spotted Thranduil, who was concealing a smile. "Good afternoon!" she chirped and bobbed a little curtsey. "Goodness, but it is a long way here from Dale. I'm sore all over!"

"Dear me, that won't do," said Thranduil. "I have often found a hot bath therapeutic after a long ride. Galion?"

"Sire?" Behind Galion, one of the guards leaned over and whispered something in Tirithalen's ear. There was a bout of what might have been uncharitably described as giggling. Galion's ears reddened even more, and he said, rather louder than necessary, "How might I be of assistance?"

"Our guest is a little travel-sore," said Thranduil, as though he could not see the ridiculous display in front of him. "Do show her to her chambers and have a bath run." He turned to Tilda. "When you are ready, I shall have lunch served. What say you to that?"

"Ooo, I say 'yes, please!'" said Tilda enthusiastically. "And then you will show me around, yes?"

Thranduil finally allowed himself to smile. "Of course."

 

 

Walking through his halls with Tilda was like having his eyes opened again. He had grown used to the chambers and corridors and sweeping staircases trampled with the mud and dust of thousands of years, but to her, it was utterly new. Every room, every hall brought forth exclamation of delight as she pointed out this carving or that hanging lamp as if they were each works of art.

She loved the tapestries in the library, and wanted to know every detail of every story. He managed the Making of the World through to the planting of the Two Trees, by the end of which it had become apparent that it would be more efficient to lend her a book. So, with his permission, she went to ask the librarians, who had been huddled at one end of the library looking nervous, if they had any recommendations.

"Even your books are lovely," she said later, cradling the thick volume she had been given like a child. "We don't have very many books in Dale. I hope Da sorts that out when he finishes up with the more important things."

In places the halls were lit by great skylights tunnelled up through the hillside, and these Tilda found particularly entertaining because the tunnels were not straight and it was not immediately apparent how the light was actually coming down through them. "I suppose they must have lots of mirrors in there, to get it round the corners" she said, and Thranduil had to admit that he was not himself sure. Like most of the things she had gushed over already that day, he had not even considered it in many years.

Finally she stood in his throne room staring open-mouthed up at the carven ceiling, the twisting, twining pathways of stone shaped so cunningly it seemed grown instead.

"Look at it," she whispered. "It's beautiful. Just... _look_ at it!"

He looked. It appeared much the same as it had done for the last age and a half. He glanced down at the girl, wonder and joy reflected like the torchlight in her wide eyes. Then he looked again. This time, he saw.

 

 

"Do you want me to do that?" asked Tilda. They sat now in his high chambers, where the late afternoon sun shone through the tall windows over the hillside and warmed the still air. Galion had fluttered in with a pot of tea and a plate piled high with fresh biscuits and then disappeared as quietly as he had entered. "Kings shouldn't have to pour their own tea."

"And neither should guests," countered Thranduil, and poured her a cup anyway from the elegant silver teapot. "How are your family?"

"Goo', fanks," said Tilda indistinctly around a biscuit. She swallowed. "Bain's getting better at sword-fighting. He hardly falls over at all now. And Sigrid says she's going to learn to be a... um, one of those people who go to other places and make deals with their leaders and stuff."

"A diplomat?" suggested Thranduil. _Or possibly a Dark Lord..._

"Yes! That's it. Da says he might bring her to one of your meetings one day, so she can see what happens."

"She might find it rather tiresome. There is only so much to discuss." Although, perhaps Sigrid was better at Orc And Eagles than her father.

"Yes, Da says you mostly just play board games now," said Tilda, as if she had read Thranduil's mind. "That's nice, though. He needs a friend. He's been very lonely since Ma went away."

Something twinged in his chest at the idea that Bard might, of all things, be his _friend._ He managed to cover it up by feigning indignation. "I hope your father does not make a habit of reporting all our confidential political discussions."

Tilda laughed. "Only to me," she said. "I mean, he tells Sigrid the important things but I'm the only one who knows you beat him at Orc And Eagles. He was really cross about that, he sulked for ages." She took a sip of her tea and added quietly, "He does like you a lot, though. I know it's hard to tell sometimes; he's not very good at talking about feelings. But he says nice things about you too."

"Indeed?" said Thranduil exceedingly carefully. "And he says them to you?"

Tilda looked a little cagey. "Well, it's more like he says them _at_ me. He comes in to say goodnight and sometimes he sits on my bed and talks to himself a bit. I think he thinks I'm asleep." She frowned down into her tea. "I don't know if I should be telling you this."

He knew he should ask her to keep her silence, to not trouble her conscience, to respect her father's privacy. But the twinge in his heart had become an ache, and it frightened him and froze his tongue.

"He thinks you're not a bad king," said Tilda finally. "I think he understands why you like to hide away in here. You love your kingdom a lot and you're doing what you think is best to protect them. He respects that, even if he doesn't always agree." She considered her tea for a long time. "And he thinks that you have nice hair too."

Thranduil hoped against all hope that Tilda would not notice his ears reddening. "Why do you tell me this?" he asked faintly.

"Because you like him too. And I think, if I liked someone and they were saying nice things about me I would want to know. Especially about my hair." Fortunately, before Tilda could reveal any more secrets she looked up and saw the wooden board and the box of pieces on a nearby shelf. "Oh! Is that the game you were playing, with the Ravens and the Dragons?" she asked eagerly. "Could you teach me?"

Tilda could also not remember how the Ice-drakes moved, but she was considerably less grumpy about it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a foolish thing is done.

By the time it came for Tilda to leave, Thranduil was sorry indeed to see her to go.

"Are you coming with us?" she asked, stuffing the last of her belongings into her bag.

He shook his head. "I fear not, but you will be safe enough with my guards."

Tilda's face fell. "Oh. Are you sure? You could take me back instead. Or are you not allowed to do that?"

"It would hardly do for the king to ride out alone." The words had hardly left his mouth before he realised how like Galion he sounded.

"You don't have to be king all the time, you know." It wasn't a demand, or a criticism, but merely a comment. Yet he looked down at her and the weight of the stone above them seemed to press down as if to crush him, and he longed for starlight and the open air, and so he did something very foolish indeed.

"Wait here," he said.

The chest containing his old riding gear was buried under three fur coats and half a map of Beleriand, and freeing it was an adventure in itself. Once he got it open, he was pleased to find the contents mostly intact and only slightly moth-eaten. His usual taste in clothing ran to greens and golds and intricate embroidery, all loose sleeves and enveloping cloaks. His riding gear, on the other hand, was a study in thirty shades of dull brown, with lots of belts and irritating buckles that all needed fastening. The boots that went with it were likewise brown leather, with even more buckles and suede turned-over tops that had last been fashionable in the early Second Age. He cast about for something with which to tie up his hair and found the handful of ribbons that Tilda had once woven into his braids on that strange day in Dale when he had first learned of the wisdom of the children of Men. They would do well. His sword he bound on his hip, for while the northern parts of the Wood were mostly free of fell creatures now, it didn't hurt to be prepared. Over the top of all of this he threw a dusty cloak the provenance of which he struggled to recall, though the slashes in the fabric did make him slightly nervous.

"We must leave quickly and quietly," he said, striding back into the chamber where Tilda was waiting. "Galion would try to stop me if he knew—are you well?" For Tilda had gasped and covered her mouth when he had entered.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You look like a pirate! Or a fierce bandit!"

Thranduil opened his mouth to disagree, looked down at his outfit and decided that there were far worse words she could have used.

He left a note for Galion on his desk. There was going to be a very large argument later, but he would deal with that when it came.

Sneaking to the stables and liberating a horse without being seen was surprisingly easy, and Thranduil made a mental note to have a word with Tirithalen about lax security when he got back. It was still early in the morning when they left, following the river down to the edge of the Wood, weaving through the branches to avoid the eyes of the patrols. There was no doubt about it; the air in the forest was lighter and fresher than ever it was when evil lurked unchallenged in the old fortress, and they saw neither hide nor hair of any fell creature. As the trees thinned their horse gathered speed, and when they burst out from under the eaves of the Wood and into the sunlight with a great leap Tilda laughed and laughed.

They turned north soon after exiting the forest; Thranduil had no desire to look upon the Long Lake again and he suspected Tilda would feel similarly. They stopped to rest around noon when they rejoined the river. While Tilda paddled her feet in the shallows Thranduil took the opportunity to rub a little mud over the gold on his saddle, until it no longer looked like it belonged to a King of anywhere.

Suddenly he heard a gasp behind him.

"Look!"

He spun around, one hand on the hilt of his sword, but Tilda was pointing not at a band of approaching enemies, but up at the midday sky.

"Doesn't that one look just like an Eagle?" she said, finger stretching up towards a particularly fluffy cloud formation.

Thranduil looked. Then he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes a little. It _did_ look rather like an Eagle, in a way. There was certainly something Eagle-ish about it, at least, but something was not quite right.

"It is a Kite," he said. "See how it has a forked tail?"

"So it does! Da tries to teach me the names of birds but I always forget to look at the tails. Come on, now it's your turn." She looked up at him expectantly.

Thranduil had not looked for shapes in clouds since he had been a child. It was silly, a fancy of Elflings with more whimsy in their heads than sense. And yet...

"That one there, low over the horizon," he said. "It is a ship with a great sail, perhaps Vingilot with Ëarendil at her helm, but she sails sideways across the sky, as if the slopes of the mountains were her waves."

Tilda squinted, then leaned over and over until she was almost horizontal.

"I see it!" she cried in delight. "Oh, you're good at this! But who is Ëarendil? I thought that was the Elvish name for a star."

Thranduil had never had so long a friendship with anyone who did not know the story of the Mariner. Such a shocking gap in her lore was unacceptable, and needed to be corrected immediately. So he sat down on the bank with her and she got out the book she had borrowed; together they found the page with the watercolour illustration and he translated the Sindarin caption for her. He told himself that he was contributing to her cultural education. _Why, then, did it feel more like telling a bedtime story?_

They did not stop long, for Thranduil was in no doubt that their absence had by now been discovered, and he intended to actually reach Dale before their pursuers caught up with them and gave him a stern telling-off. And reach Dale they did, a little travel-sore but without being waylaid by a furious advisor. When they gained the city walls they dismounted and Tilda took his horse's reins from him. Both girl and horse were dusty from their journey but not so much as to seem unusual, and Tilda found an ostler whom she knew and convinced him to take the horse and send the bill for her keep to Bard without any questions at all. Without the animal the two of them fitted easily into the busy streets of the reclaimed city. Come in full regalia astride a great elk, Thranduil had been the centre of attention of a thousand people. On foot, clad in buckskin and with his hood shielding his face, he was completely uninteresting.

Tilda attracted far more notice. She seemed to know half the residents of the city, and the other half knew her. Every hundred yards she would be stopped by someone wishing to ask after her father or siblings, or simply pass the time of day. She remembered everyone's names and smiled and laughed with them, and he marvelled.

"Are you sure you should not be a diplomat, like your sister?" he asked her after they had fended off the tenth interruption.

"Oh, no," she said immediately. "No, I wouldn't be very good at it. It's so tiring. You have to be friendly, because everyone expects you to be. But I'm all worn out now."

Bard's halls were only half-complete, because he had been adamant that the rest of the town should take priority. The family quarters had escaped most of the wrath of the dragon, and so stood almost unchanged and in better repair than the surrounding buildings. Even so, in places it was obvious where the original stone met the new, and many of the outer walls were still unfinished.

Tilda peered surreptitiously around the door.

"It's all right," she said. "There's no-one here. Bain's probably out with the guard. I think Sigrid's gone with Da to see the Dwarves." And she held the door open for him, as she had done the day they had met.

"May I take your cloak?" she said, holding out her arms to receive it, and she looked so serious he only narrowly avoided laughing. He removed his cloak and handed it to her with a flourish, and she giggled and hung it on a hook, though she had to stand on her toes to reach.

She ushered him through the hallway to the sitting room, and bade him take a seat in an armchair. Bard had thought her a princess, but there was no doubt that here, in her own house, she was a queen.

"Da should be back soon," she said, curling up on the other chair. "He doesn't really like talking to the Dwarves."

"They can be difficult," said Thranduil with a smirk, settling down in his chair and resting one ankle on the opposite knee.

"Oh, he says they're easier to talk to than you are," Tilda clarified. "Just a lot more boring." Then she reached over the arm of the chair and picked up a bag from the floor, from which she produced a wooden spindle and a mass of soft brown fleece. She talked about everything from the rebuilding work to the individual family dramas of the townsfolk, and as she chattered her hands moved, teasing the carded fibres into long strands while the spindle whirled in wobbly circles ever closer to the floor. It was fascinating to watch. Thranduil was aware that wool didn't come off the sheep already spun but he had never given the intervening process much thought, and he was on the verge of asking her to show him how it was done when there came in the distance the sound of a door opening, and footsteps in the hall.

It was the second time Bard had walked into his own sitting room to find an uninvited Elvenking in the company of his youngest daughter, and Thranduil did feel slightly guilty about that. The guilt was lessened somewhat when he noticed, with something that felt dangerously close to fondness, that Bard was once again wearing the awful cranberry-coloured shirt.

"Well met, Bard of Dale," he said easily. "I estimate we have about an hour before my people discover me here and whisk me away. It may be time enough for a drink, at least. I should have brought a bottle with me but we needed to travel light."

Bard was apparently still digesting the sight of Thranduil lounging in his chair in grubby riding leathers, because he didn't reply. There was a slight pink tinge creeping up his face. Finally, after a moment of opening and closing his mouth, he said, "You look like a bandit."

"Told you so," said Tilda with a hint of smugness.

 

 

In the end they had almost an hour and a half, in which time Bard found and opened a bottle of wine and Tilda detailed her adventures in Thranduil's halls with gusto, culminating in an account of their daring "escape" far more exciting than the actual event. Halfway through the story Sigrid returned, having gathered up Bain from the barracks, and they were both as surprised to see the Elvenking in their house as their father had been. Bain nearly knocked over a vase in his haste to bow, while Sigrid called him "Your Majesty" and executed an efficient and dignified curtsey that was just the right level of deferential without being simpering. Of course, this meant that Tilda needed to start her story again from the beginning and she had barely finished when there came a thudding knock at the door.

"My apologies," said Thranduil, emptying his glass and standing. "That is my doom without, and I should meet it, ere it grows even more wroth with me."

"I would not wish to keep a king from his kingdom," Bard said as he also rose but Thranduil waved him off lazily.

"I did not come here as a king," he insisted, "even if it seems I must return as one. I thank you and your family for your hospitality; it was impolite of me to arrive unannounced."

"You are always welcome in my house," said Bard, "especially since you seem to have been doing so fine a job of entertaining my daughter!"

"Thank you for having me!" piped Tilda from the hearthrug, having yielded the chair to her father some time before. Try as he might, Thranduil could not stop himself from smiling as he bid the youngsters farewell.

"I rather like the outfit," commented Bard as they walked down the echoing hallway. "It makes you look as if you might actually be of some use other than as decoration."

"Perhaps I shall wear it more often, then," Thranduil said, and tried not to notice the slight catch in Bard's stride. It meant nothing.

_Do you find me decorative, Bard of Dale?_

The door opened to reveal a band of Wood-elves with bows on their backs and swords on their hips. At the front was Tirithalen, wearing a grim expression, though the four behind looked rather as if they were trying not to smile.

"Ah, my valiant rescuers," said Thranduil, who between the events of that day and Bard's wine was feeling quite merry. "I hope one of you has brought some coin, or I shall need to come back tomorrow for my horse."

"Your advisor wishes to see you, sire," said the chief guard, ignoring his last comment.

"Yes," said Thranduil, subsiding a little. "I imagine he does."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a long-overdue conversation is had, and a problem is solved.

There was, as Thranduil had predicted, an argument, and it went much the same way as any argument between two people who have known each other a long time and hold each other in great respect, which is to say that it was very loud and increasingly cruel.

Galion said a lot of things about duty and dignity and a responsibility to the throne. Thranduil said that the throne had been subjected to his presence since the end of the Second Age and would not miss him for an afternoon, and additionally pointed out that he was, after all, the king, and should be free to go where he would. Galion asked who Thranduil thought would be king if he got himself killed riding out without a guard. Thranduil replied that he had survived the War of the Last Alliance and the Siege of Barad-Dûr as well as a nigh-constant stream of invading evil creatures from the south and was therefore unlikely to be slain by fishermen. Galion wondered what would have happened if he had fallen in the river. Thranduil retorted that if he died by falling off his horse into a stream then he probably should not have been king in the first place.

And then Galion spat, "This would not even be an issue if you were not so besotted with that wretched Man," and Thranduil snarled, "Bard is not wretched," and then there was a long and dreadful silence.

Thranduil sat down heavily at his desk, all the anger beaten out of him. Behind him he heard Galion let out a long, shaky breath.

"Forgive me," said Galion. "That was... I did not mean to imply that..."

"Do not apologise," said Thranduil tiredly, rubbing a hand over his face. "It is the truth, is it not? It must be, or what else can this be?"

Galion did not reply, and for a moment Thranduil regretted speaking, but the words could not be unsaid.

"Is it not?" he asked again softly, and it was a half-question, asked more of himself than of anyone else.

After a few moments he heard Galion pick up a chair from the other side of the room and bring it over. He didn't stop him; this talk had been a long time coming already. Galion sat, but Thranduil could not look at him yet.

"I cannot claim to know your heart, my friend," Galion said. "I can only tell you what I see from the outside."

"Then speak to me honestly: what is it that you have seen?"

Galion was a long time in replying. "After-" he started, but it seemed his words would not be spoken. He began again. "I despaired for you, for many years. We all grieved deeply, but your grief became stone with which you built a fortress of sorrow in which to dwell, and none could pass its walls, and inside its dark towers I watched you grow cold and bitter as winter. As your heart froze you feared the loss of what little remained, and so begrudging your people their freedom you shut them in your keep with you and forgot about the world beyond your halls. In your blindness you called it prudence, and I was a coward and did not disagree."

"You should have spoken," said Thranduil miserably.

"It was not my place," said Galion, "and you would not have heeded me. These are grim words to hear, I know, but it is time you admitted that you laid the foundations of your own doom."

Thranduil shook his head, still staring at the desk. "I see it now," he said. "I saw it after the Battle, when..."

"When Legolas left," Galion finished, when Thranduil could not. "Yes, I think that is when you began to see the ruin your grief and your anger had wrought."

"Would that I had seen it sooner."

"That you have seen it at all, I count as a blessing," said Galion, "for it is a first sign of greater things. You are changed, Thranduil, and though you may not feel it, it is plain to me. The fortress around your heart still stands, but the gate is ajar and there is light within. For the first time in too long, I have seen you smile, a smile born of joy and not of malice or rage. You have made a friend of a mortal child who still wears ribbons in her hair. And this afternoon I came into your chamber to find that you had donned your old riding habit and stolen out of your own halls and away to Dale like a youth sneaking out of his parents' house at night to attend a feast for which he has not permission!" Galion's voice broke into a chuckle, and Thranduil finally looked up at him. "I do not know what Bard has done, but I thank him for it. I had feared I would live to the ending of the world and yet never again see you merry."

"He is mortal," said Thranduil quietly. "He will die, by blade or by time, and his good influence will come to naught."

"Many things in this world are fleeting, especially to the Eldar," said Galion. "It does not mean that they are less beautiful or important, only that we must appreciate them while we still may."

"Is this your way of telling me that you approve?" said Thranduil, surprised.

"You must realise that I hold two positions here," Galion said. "As your advisor, sire, I must counsel you that anything... untoward happening, or perceived to be happening, between you and Bard of Dale will go ill, politically speaking." Thranduil started to speak but Galion held up a bold hand to silence him. "As your friend, I think that Bard is a good man who will make a great king, and if your heart is moved for him, and seeks him, and desires him, then you should not let it yearn unheeded."

Thranduil thought on this awhile, then groaned in frustration. "My heart speaks, but I cannot understand the words! And if I cannot know my own heart, how can I hope to know his?"

Galion shrugged. "I said, I can tell you only what I see. For instance I can tell you that you smile when he smiles, and that the reverse is true of him. I can tell you that you walk half a pace behind him and he allows this, though both our customs and his would have you precede him, and I can tell you that your voice grows soft when you speak of him, and there is a light in your eyes that I once knew of old, before loss shuttered your windows and doused your lamps. But I cannot say if it is love that brightens your eyes, nor whether he returns your affection, nor indeed what you should do, for I am not wise in these matters. I fear that these, as with many troubles of the heart, are things you must discover for yourself."

"You always say that," said Thranduil, momentarily a child again.

"Then it must be true, or I would not say it." Galion stood. "A glass of wine, sire?"

Thranduil cast a glance out the window at the sky, where dawn could not be more than three hours away. "Is it not a little late? Or, rather, a little early?"

Galion smiled conspiratorially. "My friends who watch the skies and study the motions of the stars tell me that somewhere on this great world, it is still at present the late afternoon."

Thranduil considered this new piece of information and deemed it good. "Very well," he said. "Bring up a bottle of the Dorwinion, will you? You know where it is."

"Certainly, sire."

"Oh, and Galion?" Thranduil stopped him before he could leave.

"Sire?"

"Two glasses, I think."

"Thank you, sire."

 

* * *

 

At around the time Thranduil and Tilda had stopped by the river during their Great Escape from Mirkwood, the band of travellers from Imladris had just crossed the Old Ford and Glorfindel had taken a private oath never to travel anywhere with Lindir ever again.

It wasn't that he disliked Lindir. Indeed, he thought that a few of the older and grumpier inhabitants of the Valley could do with taking a leaf out of the minstrel's extensive and copiously annotated songbook. Lindir was a cheerful soul, slow to anger and quick to forgive, and if gifted with a secret he would guard it with his life, provided it was made clear that it was in fact a secret. No, Glorfindel quite liked Lindir, in his own way.

Erestor, however, did not, and the crux of the matter was that, as suggested by both his name and his trade, Lindir liked to sing.

He sang about lots of things. On this particular trek, he had started singing on the first day out from Rivendell. It had been a song about going on a journey, and Glorfindel had joined in because it had seemed a jolly thing to do at the time. Unfortunately, this only encouraged Lindir. The next song was about mountains. So was the one after that. By the time they had wound their weary way through the High Pass, Glorfindel felt sure he had heard every song about mountains ever written since the making of the World. Then, as their path led down to the plain, they had seen in the distance the glistening silver ribbon of the Anduin flowing down to the Sea. The next day Lindir was entirely concerned with rivers. They had the Lay of Nimrodel three times, which Glorfindel felt was at least twice more than necessary, especially because Lindir seemed to know _all_ the verses, including those from an obscure set of Noldorin broadsheets that didn't have anything to do with the rest of the song. Then they came in sight of Mirkwood and the theme became forests.

The Dwarves had an interesting concept which they called the Conservation of Momentum. Some passing traders had once demonstrated it to Glorfindel over the dining table with a collection of coloured marbles. They had shown how, if one marble were to roll along and hit a stationary marble and start that one rolling as well, the second marble would never go faster than the first marble. In other words, you couldn't get out more than you put in.

Erestor disproved this notion entirely. It was as if he were a mirror towards which might be directed any small annoyance or irritation, and he would reflect that back at the surroundings (which in this case was Glorfindel) in the form of grumbling, grousing and generally being unpleasant to be around. However, in complete defiance of the Dwarves' supposedly unbreakable laws, the level of annoyance output was much _greater_ than the input.

Erestor found Lindir's singing _very_ irritating indeed.

This was proving difficult to bear. Glorfindel was very fond of Erestor, and he was aware, thanks to various events and discussions which had over the years coalesced into an Understanding, that Erestor was very fond of him too. However, it was starting to become hard to remember this with that same Elf riding next to him glowering and muttering under his breath about garrotting Lindir with his own harp-strings.

Instead, Glorfindel was making a valiant effort to appreciate the scenery, which was admittedly very beautiful. As they turned north the Anduin chattered softly to their left, while to their right, maybe two hours distant at a hard run, the walls of Mirkwood rose up, dark and forbidding. The land between the river and the forest was grassy but firm, stretching north as far as eyes could see.

"How lovely," said Lindir wistfully, because he liked almost every variation of landscape imaginable. It probably reminded him of a song. In truth, it was slightly surprising that he was not singing already. "Would it not be nice to gallop over?"

Glorfindel spied an opportunity and leapt on it with both hands. "There's a thought," he said lightly. "Perhaps you could ride north to the Forest Gate and see if King Thranduil's folk are waiting. It should be no more than a day's ride, and I'm sure your horse would like to stretch her legs."

"What a fine idea!" declared Lindir gaily. "Oh, but I have my harp, and it doesn't do to bump it about so."

"Give your harp to me," said Glorfindel quickly. "We can bear a little more weight." Asfaloth snorted under him, but seemed to accept that this was a sacrifice for the greater good.

As Lindir galloped away, singing something vaguely horse-related and leaving a welcome silence behind, Glorfindel turned to grin at Erestor and found the other Elf staring at him as if he had performed a miracle.

"I would never have thought of that," admitted Erestor.

"That is your problem, _meleth nîn_ ," said Glorfindel, nudging their horses closer. "You are not devious enough."

"And you are, I suppose?" There was a sly smile creeping its way across Erestor's face. It was quite distracting.

"Well, one doesn't like to brag," said Glorfindel nobly.

Erestor's sly smile widened into a grin, and he reached across the narrow gap between them, took hold of the front of Glorfindel's jerkin and pulled him into an awkward but very welcome kiss.

Glorfindel decided he was going to be more devious from now on.

The day passed in relative quiet as the two of them proceeded northwards at a more sedate pace. They were well past the point where conversation for its own sake was deemed necessary, so most of the journey was conducted in a companionable silence. At one point, Glorfindel asked if Erestor would like to hear a song. Erestor asked if Glorfindel would like a broken nose. Glorfindel said he felt this was unfair, given that it was he who had solved the Lindir Problem. Erestor agreed that yes, it had been very well done, but that did not mean he wanted to hear "Here Down In The Valley" right now or, indeed, ever again. Glorfindel was hurt that Erestor did not appreciate his efforts. Erestor said that he would make it up to him later.

When they broke for camp that night, Erestor made it up to him several times.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein three night-time conversations take place

The city of Dale lay dark and quiet. On the ramparts the watch-fires burned low, and the windows were lit by the warm glow of hearth and lantern.

Bard pushed open the door to Tilda's room ever so quietly. Then he sighed. "You should be in bed."

"I am in bed," said Tilda, who was reading by the light of a stubby candle.

"You know what I mean. Come now, put it away. You've had a busy day, and little princesses need their sleep."

Tilda pouted, but tucked a bookmark in between the pages and placed the book on the bedside table. She wriggled down under the blankets like a cat burying itself in a cosy spot, and Bard sat down on the bed beside her and tucked her in.

"What is the book about?" he asked. He didn't recognise it; the edges were gilt and the cover was thick green cloth embossed with a pattern of golden leaves and spirals. It was altogether more fair than most of the volumes in Dale.

"It's a history book," she said. "King Thranduil lent it to me. Some of it's in Elvish but there's a lot of Westron too, and the pictures are pretty. He's even in it a bit. Imagine being so old that there are books written about you!"

"I hadn't really thought about it," said Bard, who had spent an unbelievable amount of time thinking about it.

"Didn't he look handsome in his riding clothes," said Tilda wistfully. "Like he's not really a king, he's just him."

"I suppose so," said Bard; in fact he felt that 'handsome' didn't even begin to cover it but didn't want to let on.

Tilda yawned. "He wants to be your friend," she mumbled sleepily. "I think you should let him."

"I thought I was trying," said Bard, but Tilda was already asleep. He leaned over and kissed her brow, just under the curl of hair over her eye that always escaped its braids and refused to lie flat. He sat there for a while, listening to her breathing, until he was sure she would not wake.

"I don't know how you do it," he whispered, as he'd whispered so many secrets to the silence of that room. "How did you befriend an Elf, who walked Middle-Earth before your oldest ancestors were born? How can you love something so endless and eternal?"

But those were questions for another day. Tomorrow he had meetings to attend and reports to read, and tonight he needed to sleep. Gently he blew out the candle on the table and slipped silently out of the room.

As he closed the door, there came the faintest whisper from the bed, so soft he almost thought he had imagined it

"Maybe you should ask him."

 

* * *

 

"Do you think we were overcruel to Lindir?" asked Erestor, considering the stars.

"He wanted to go," mumbled Glorfindel into Erestor's shoulder, where he had been dozing. Erestor had never met an Elf who slept as much as Glorfindel. Most Elves thought sleep a waste of time and avoided it wherever possible. Glorfindel, however, slept like a cat; that is, easily, gleefully and without any concern for the amount of space he was taking up or the discomfort of the people around him. Now, for instance, he was sprawled half on top of Erestor, with his face in the crook of Erestor's neck and an arm and a leg flung carelessly over him. On the one hand, this was very nice; it was warm and comforting and it meant that Erestor could run his fingers through that beautiful golden hair and caress the soft skin behind one pointed ear. On the other hand—specifically, the hand attached to the limb on which Glorfindel's not inconsiderable weight was resting—it was beginning to become apparent that if Erestor wished to be able to use that arm in the morning, someone was going to have to move.

"Even so," said Erestor, "to send him away like that..."

"I only did it to stop you being so awful," said Glorfindel petulantly. "You were the one threatening to strangle him, as I recall. It's hardly the boy's fault he likes to sing."

"Perhaps I was a little unfair," said Erestor slowly.

"Varda Elentári," said Glorfindel with great sarcasm. "My prayers have been answered. Erestor has developed a conscience." Erestor made a noise which might have been either acquiescence or annoyance. The two were, in Glorfindel's experience, very similar. "Do not let the thing trouble you, anyway," he continued. "By now, Lindir will have met the poor unassuming gate-guards and will be happily sharing with them a selection of his favourite songs about trees. If we are _very_ lucky, they may even know some that he does not."

"I imagine," said Erestor, flexing his fingers idly in the hopes of restoring some of the circulation, "that he is looking forward to broadening his repertoire concerning caves. That is an area largely neglected by the collections of Imladris."

"Do mine ears deceive me? Erestor, admitting a shortcoming of Lord Elrond's library? Will wonders never cease."

"Oh, do go back to sleep."

Fortunately for Erestor—and less fortunately for his increasingly numb fingers—Glorfindel was happy to oblige.

 

* * *

 

High above the forest, a black shape hung in the breeze. Wings twitched this way and that, catching the updrafts that held it aloft. Eyes, keen as a sword-point, searched the darkened hillside. There! A spark of light, near the summit. Target sighted, the black wings furled and the shape fell like a thunderbolt out of the night sky.

With a clatter, Cuwôdh the Raven alighted on the window-sill.

"Evenin'," she said. "Or should I say, mornin'? Blimey, you're up late. Hope you've got a bottle open. He knows you've been at the Dorwinion, by the way."

"He has known for some time," said Galion, for it was his window-sill. "But I had permission to open this one. Come in, my friend. I have saved you a glass."

"Much obliged." Cuwôdh settled on the end of Galion's desk where a small liquor glass of wine sat ready, into which she stuck her beak and slurped noisily. Galion tutted reprovingly. "Ah, be quiet, you. Try drinking wine with a beak and we'll see who's complaining about table manners."

Galion laughed from behind his own glass. "Fighting talk from someone who cannot converse with the king without putting on airs."

"I do not put on airs!" protested Cuwôdh, puffing up her feathers in indignation. "I merely speak in a more dignified manner, as befits an ambassador of my species in communication with the leader of another. Speaking of appropriate behaviour in the realm of politics," she added, "I've heard His Majesty did a runner today. Very dangerous, kings going a-wandering without leave. They start getting ideas."

"It was largely the girl's doing, I believe," said Galion. "She has a kind heart and an adventurous soul, but she lacks understanding of the political ramifications of her actions. The king and I had strong words, when he returned. There are, however, other factors involved."

"He fancies the bowman, doesn't he?"

Galion choked indecorously on his drink. "How can you possibly know that?" he demanded, mopping up wine from his desk with his sleeve. "I did not have it confirmed myself until this evening, and I have told no-one."

"We get about," Cuwôdh replied with a shrug of her dark wings. "Some of us watch the bowman and his family. Sort of renewing a traditional allegiance, you could call it. And you know how it is; you hang around someone a lot, you pick up things, sometimes even things they haven't worked out themselves yet. Besides, people talk. Most folks can't tell a Raven from a raven." Somehow she was able to convey the presence of the capital letter. "You get to overhear a lot of things you shouldn't. Between that and those of us who come and go around the Wood there's a right old gossip circle going back in the rookery. Bit of an embarrassment for you, I imagine."

"As his advisor and his political second, yes," said Galion, finishing his glass and examining the empty bottle with sorrow. "As his friend, I would be entirely in favour of them coming to an arrangement."

"Cor, really? You old romantic. It'll end in tears, I bet."

"Perhaps not."

"Hmph," snorted Cuwôdh. "Well, you'd best start making plans, then. You know what he's like; they'll be dancing around each other for months if you don't chivvy things along. Some of the chicks are taking bets as to whether they make it to Midwinter."

"Fear not," said Galion mysteriously. "I have a plan already, and my reinforcements will arrive in only a few days' time."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein plans are formulated, then complicated.

Two days later, the reinforcements were leading their steeds down the winding, twisting way of the Elf-Path. Erestor and Glorfindel had found Lindir that morning at the Forest Gate chatting merrily with some of Thranduil's guards, who were unnaturally thrilled to see them. It seemed that, as Glorfindel had predicted, Lindir had indeed been taking full advantage of a fresh audience. Fortunately, the tricky terrain of the path meant that the minstrel was now far too occupied with guiding his horse to focus much energy on singing.

"Have you actually put any thought into the reason behind our coming all this way?" Glorfindel asked Erestor as they navigated a particularly precarious stretch of pathway.

"You mean, have I decided how I am going to organise a birthday party for a little girl in less than three weeks?" replied Erestor. "Much the same way I organised Estel's, I imagine."

"Not the one with the orc attack, I hope."

Erestor huffed. "I thought I coped very well with the change in circumstance."

"Indeed. I especially enjoyed the part where you skewered the pack leader with a lit candelabra."

"Oh, _really_."

"It was a very dramatic moment! One day I intend to have it on a tapestry."

"All of his other birthdays went very smoothly," said Erestor pointedly (though not as pointed as the candelabra). "In any case, I have narrowed down the issues at hand to three crucial matters."

"Oh?" There was a wide gap in the path where the stones had fallen loose and plummeted into the oozing river below. Glorfindel urged Asfaloth forward, leapt nimbly across himself and turned to offer his hand to Erestor, who rolled his eyes but accepted the help, though he did glance quickly around to make sure no-one was watching.

"First, there should be a feast, and a cake. That should be fairly straightforward. I might even-" Erestor winced, and continued quietly. "I might even persuade Lindir to compose a song for the occasion."

"I think, _meleth nîn,_ the challenge would be in _stopping_ him."

Erestor ignored this. "Next, the guest list. The political situation in Rhovanion is delicate at the moment, and my understanding of it is not complete, so I will have to defer to Galion in that respect."

"It is a birthday party, Erestor, not a peace summit."

"Bard may as well be King of Dale, and probably will be soon enough, so the child is a princess in all but name. As soon as King Thranduil was involved it became a political event."

"I'm sure you know best," said Glorfindel in an infuriatingly sweet manner. "The third item?"

"A gift." Now Erestor looked nervous. "That is the tricky part."

"How old is she?" asked Glorfindel.

"Twelve."

"And what did Elrond give Estel for his twelfth birthday?"

Erestor's brow furrowed. It was very charming. "I don't recall. I think that was the one with the orcs."

"Hmm. I fear an orc raid on demand might be beyond even your prodigious organisational skills."

"One can only hope."

 

* * *

 

"Counsellor Erestor! It is good to see you."

"Likewise, Galion. It has been some time." Erestor stepped forward to clasp the other advisor's arm, and Glorfindel wondered if there was some strange plant from which were grown dark-eyed, serious little Elves who grew up to be politicians. "May I introduce Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, and Lindir, chief minstrel of Imladris."

"A pleasure." Galion bowed deeply. "You do us honour by your presence, Lord Glorfindel."

Glorfindel winced and held up a hand. "Please, I am only _Lord_ Glorfindel when Erestor is particularly annoyed with me. Though I feel sure we have met before. Were you ever in Gondolin?"

Galion shook his head. "Only once, and I do not believe our paths crossed."

"How strange. Perhaps it will come back to me later."

"Your chambers have been prepared," said Galion, and waved a guard forward from the shadows. "I'm sure you would wish to refresh yourselves before you speak to King Thranduil. Counsellor, may I crave a moment of your time?"

"Of course," said Erestor.

As they were led away by the guard, Glorfindel could just about be heard muttering to Lindir:

"—sure he looks just like one of the Doriath rabble I met in a tavern. Sang a very funny song about some sort of small animal. A rabbit, maybe, or was it a vole?"

"It is best if we speak privately," said Galion, once the others had departed. "This is a delicate matter."

He led the way down through the labyrinthine passages to a small study far from the main thoroughfares. He ushered Erestor inside, checked the corridor outside, then shut the door and let out a long-held breath.

"Erestor!" he hissed accusingly. "You did not tell me it was Lord Glorfindel of _Gondolin_ to whom you were wed!"

"Which Glorfindel did you think I meant?" asked Erestor, baffled.

"I had thought, perhaps, there might have been another so called." Galion shook his head in disbelief. "Though I should have known you would settle for nothing less than the original. However did you manage that?"

Erestor folded his arms and raised an eyebrow in mock annoyance. "Friend Galion, while I would be well-pleased to discuss the intimate details of my personal life, this cannot be all you needed to ask of me."

Galion held up his hands in penitence. "In my defence, it is of a related matter that I wish to speak, though first I must have your word that what I am about to say will not leave our company."

"You have it."

"My problem is this: King Thranduil is enamoured of Bard the Dragonslayer."

Erestor's face was very carefully blank. "When you say 'enamoured'," he said slowly, "do you mean..."

"I do."

"I see. And is his regard returned?"

"Perhaps," said Galion cautiously. "I have reason to believe that the potential is there, though to my knowledge nothing has come of it yet."

Erestor nodded. "And you wish to ask my advice in preventing any further development."

"On the contrary. I am fully in support of the prospect—off the record, of course. However, I fear that without outside assistance they will be too stubborn or fearful or oblivious to ever reach an accord."

Surprise now showed clearly on Erestor's face. "You would have your King court a mortal? Why?"

"Because I would have him be happy again," said Galion plainly. "In the months since they met I have seen him smile more than in all the years since the Queen was lost."

"There is a reason the Eldar do not wed with the Secondborn," Erestor reminded him. "Such marriages have not ended well."

"I am aware," said Galion.

"Not to mention that a relationship between them would mean political ruin for both!"

"And I am sure _your_ relationship with Lord Glorfindel has been _entirely_ without scrutiny."

"That is not the same at all," said Erestor stiffly. "Neither of us is the lord of an entire people."

Galion sighed. "Please, my friend. You too serve a lord who has lost his dearest love. You know what it is like to watch and to have precious little comfort to offer."

"That is not the same either! My Lady is not dead, but departed, and they will meet again."

"Will they? You must have heard the rumours; the Red Eye has returned, and small wonder it will be now if any of us ever set foot on the Blessed Shores. Besides, departed is as good as dead to those left behind. You cannot tell me there was never a time when you hoped he might love another and be happy."

Erestor did not reply, and his face was grim as he considered Galion's words.

"Few of the Eldar have loved twice in one lifetime," continued Galion quietly. "Should my King not accept this gift?"

Erestor ran a weary hand over his face. "I cannot guarantee that I can conceal it from his subjects," he said. "If they are discreet, the Men will not notice, but there is always the possibility that your people will mark the change; it is in our nature."

"I have given thought to the matter, yes," said Galion. "I am not the only one in these woods who worries about our King. But I deem the risk acceptable."

"Very well," said Erestor with a sigh of defeat. "On top of planning a party for a little girl, you wish me also to play matchmaker to your King and the Lord of Dale, as secretly as can be managed. I think it foolish, but I will try. Is there any other way I might avail you while I am here?"

"Not unless you care to divulge the secret of your ability to ensnare legendary Elf-lords," said Galion with a smirk.

"It is well that we are not in my study," said Erestor. "I am renowned in Imladris for my aim with a paperweight."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein first impressions are made and more secrets are acquired. Also, Lindir gets lost.

They met with King Thranduil in his audience chamber early the next morning, and Erestor outlined his three points of attack as he had detailed to Glorfindel on the road. It was decided that the feast would be the first to be dealt with and Lindir, who loved food almost as much as he loved music, was dispatched to the kitchens wearing his most genial expression to parley with the head cook. The guest list was delegated to Galion with his superior knowledge of the political climate of the region. That left only the gift to be arranged. For that, Erestor said, it would be necessary to meet the girl. To that end, he and Glorfindel set out for Dale at once, Glorfindel somewhat less than impressed at being back on horseback so soon.

("And will you promise to not be completely awful to her, Erestor?" said Galion in an undertone as they saddled the horses. "I know you don't care for children."

"I promise," said Erestor, and reminded himself that he didn't mind mortal children as much; for one, they grew up much faster.)

 

It was market day in the town and the streets were thronged with stalls, squashed in between the still-scaffolded buildings and wayward piles of masonry. There were people everywhere, jostling for space around the merchants' tables and tents; Dalefolk for the most part, in their distinctive furs, but also other Men in unfamiliar clothing or speaking with strange accents and even, here and there, parties of Dwarves elbowing their way through the crowd.

"Elbereth," muttered Erestor as they led their horses through the crush. "This is worse than Midsummer Fair in Lindon."

"Oh come, surely this is more to your liking," said Glorfindel, who was always more fond of bustling cities. "It is not so hot, and no-one is trying to put a crown of flowers on your head, or—"

But what other advantages the markets of Dale might have over Midsummer Fair were lost, for at that moment a huge basket of vegetables walked right into him.

"Oh, excuse me, I’m so sorry!" said a girl's voice, and a curly head appeared over the basket. "I didn't see you at all. Did I hurt you?"

"Fear not, little miss," laughed Glorfindel. "I have fought mightier foes than a bushel of turnips. Indeed, I can say that I fear no vegetable."

"That is not what you said about the sprouts at dinner," said Erestor.

Glorfindel made a face that did not belong on an ancient Elf-lord. "Sprouts are not a vegetable, Erestor; they are a device of the Enemy, designed to sap our morale and ruin our appetites."

"That's silly," said the girl behind the turnips. "You obviously just haven't had them cooked properly."

"Pardon me, young lady," said Erestor quickly, before Glorfindel could produce a rejoinder, "but we are looking for Bard of Dale. Where might we find him?"

"Oh, that's easy," said the girl with a smile. "He's my Da. But I think he's in a meeting right now. He has a lot of those. I can show you to his halls and you can ask if he can see you later."

The Elves exchanged meaningful glances.

"You must be Tilda," said Glorfindel. "We have heard much of you from King Thranduil."

She giggled. "Oh dear. I hope it's all good things. Are you from Mirkwood? I don't think I've seen you before."

Glorfindel shook his head. "Mirkwood? No, we have come a hair further than that. This is Erestor, chief counsellor to Lord Elrond Peredhel of Imladris," he said with great enthusiasm, clapping the other Elf firmly on the back, "and my name is Glorfindel."

Tilda's mouth dropped open. " _The_ Glorfindel?"

"To the best of my knowledge, there is no other," said Glorfindel with a grin. Behind him, Erestor rolled his eyes long-sufferingly.

Tilda was still looking at him in a state of open-mouthed awe. "I've been reading about you!" she gasped. "Is it true you killed a Balrog? And then you died too, but then you came back to life so you could kill more Balrogs, and one time the Witch-king of Angmar was so scared of you he ran away as soon as he saw you and didn't come back ever again!"

"A Balrog?" said Erestor, face completely straight. "This is news indeed. I had heard you merely lost your footing on the perilous mountain paths and plunged to a tragic but ultimately inconsequential end."

"Ouch! You wound me, _meleth nîn_ ," declared Glorfindel theatrically, one hand pressed to his breast as if Erestor's words had struck him through the heart.

"Your ego is much too great to be diminished by anything I might say," said Erestor, holding out the reins of his steed. "Now, do make yourself useful and find somewhere to stable the horses."

"There's an inn just down the street," said Tilda, recovering herself somewhat and nodding in that direction. "The ostler's really nice, he can look after them. Come on, I'll show you." And she set off with the basket of vegetables leading the way.

"Would you like some help with that?" asked Glorfindel, though he had a horse in each hand now and could scarcely have rendered assistance.

"No, thanks," she chirped. "It's all a bit carefully balanced. I think, if you took it, everything would fall off." And that was that.

The Stick & Bucket was a cheery public house with wide windows overlooking the street; it appeared well lived-in already and had obviously been one of the first priorities in the rebuilding. The stables next door were likewise warm and welcoming, and Glorfindel was sent over to negotiate while the other two lurked on the opposite side of the street, out of the way of the market traffic.

"Is it always this crowded?" asked Erestor, regarding the steady stream of merchants and customers with wariness.

Tilda nodded. "It is now," she said. "Da's been working really hard to get the markets going again and they're doing well. People come from all over the place to visit them, and the Dwarves come down from the Mountain quite a bit to sell their work. Sometimes we even see Elves here, and not just when King Thranduil comes to see Da! It’s all very exciting."

She looked over to the stables and Erestor followed her gaze almost automatically. It appeared Glorfindel had struck up a merry conversation with the ostler, who was admiring Asfaloth's gleaming white coat. Glorfindel said something to Asfaloth and the horse struck a pose, balanced on one front hoof and one rear hoof like a dancer. Another word, and the animal pranced back and forth as nimbly as a deer. The bright sound of Elvish laughter rang out across the street.

"He's so happy," said Tilda distantly. "I guess I thought, after all the awful things he's seen, he might be more serious and sad, like King Thranduil."

"He can be serious, when he wishes," said Erestor. "He has, in the past, needed to be very serious indeed. I have often wondered if that is why he makes so merry when he may."

Bored of that game, Asfaloth stopped dancing and head-butted Glorfindel affectionately. The Elf-lord laughed even harder, and stroked the shining mane, and did not stop laughing even when Asfaloth took a lock of golden hair in his mouth and chewed on it. Glorfindel turned his head to pull away gently, and his eyes, alight with joy, met Erestor's across the street. Time swam lazily to a halt, and Erestor felt that same brilliant smile mirrored on his own face.

"Erestor?"

He was startled out of his daze to find Tilda looking up at him with a curious expression on her face.

"What is the matter, child?"

Tilda looked guilty for a moment, and then all of a sudden she burst out, "Are you two married?"

Erestor paled, and then sighed in defeat. It was clearly going to be a week for having his personal life scrutinised. "Is it obvious?" he asked.

"I suppose," she said. "It's something about the way you both look and talk to each other. You're mean, but in a nice way, like you don’t mean it, and Glorfindel just laughs like it’s a really old joke. I can’t explain it very well. Also, he called you something and it sounded like 'my friend', but different. I thought it might have been 'my love'. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"On the contrary, you have been more courteous than many. I am the one who should offer apologies; I am not used to explaining the situation to mortals. They are not usually very astute. To a Elf, it would be as plain as the colour of your hair, though propriety might stay a few of them from mentioning it to my face."

“Oh,” said Tilda, and considered this for a while. “Do the Elves not like it, then? Two men, I mean.”

“It is unusual,” said Erestor carefully, “and unlikely to result in children, so runs contrary to cultural expectations. However, as far as I can tell, popular opinion is merely that Glorfindel could have done rather better.”

“That’s not true,” said Tilda firmly. “I think he’s done very well indeed.”

Erestor thought that was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to him.

 

* * *

 

Lindir was lost. He was not overly concerned by this.

Galion had offered to spare a guard to escort him through the rabbit warren that was the lower halls to the kitchen, but Lindir had refused, saying it would be more fun to find it on his own. That had been two hours ago. Even so, he was not worried. It was quite hard to worry Lindir, who was one of those people who drift through life convinced that no matter how bad things get, it will all work itself out in the end. As such, he didn’t really mind that he had been wandering aimlessly around identically looking stony corridors for what felt like years, because eventually he would surely end up at the kitchens, hopefully just in time for lunch. He was even beginning to compose a song about it.

" _In Thranduil's halls I lost my way_ ," he sang merrily as he turned into a long hallway that looked just like the last one. " _In Eryn Galen I went astray..._ ah!" There was a distinctive crack in the stone in front of him that he was reasonably certain he had passed already. That meant that at the end of the hallway he needed to turn right instead of left, or risk going around in a big loop again. Progress!

Lindir was, however, slightly concerned about the inhabitants of Mirkwood. He was used to the Last Homely House, with its bustle and various comings and goings, its busy days and its long evenings. He was especially used to music. In the Valley, there was always someone singing or plucking a harp or playing a flute, even if that person was often him.

There was no music in Mirkwood. Lindir had heard that the woodland Elves were prone to wild merry-making, but if this was true then he supposed that they must save it up for special occasions. All the Elves that he had passed in the halls so far had been grim-faced and subdued. They had all regarded him with suspicion, but none of them had spoken to him.

" _Heigh ho, too-rah-lay,"_ he hummed thoughtfully, coming to an intersection of three passages. He paused, unsure of which way he had come. " _Which is the way to the kitchens, pray?"_ he finished, pleased to have worked around the fact that very few words rhymed with 'kitchen'. The passage on his left looked slightly brighter than the others, and he was just about to head down it when his ears caught a faint sound, far off but amplified down the stony tunnels. Someone, somewhere, was playing a lute.

It is a fact that inextricably deep in the heart of every career musician lies the need to seek out other like-minded folk, and so Lindir followed the delicate notes down the middle passage without even thinking about it first. As the sound grew closer a voice could be made out too, and finally lyrics.

Erestor had often complained that Lindir's choices of music were limited to three broad categories, which he defined as Drinking, Fighting and Woeful Love. Lindir felt this was slightly unfair, since many of his songs were actually about _Un_ woeful Love. Lindir was a curious creature, in that he was a great romantic without ever having been troubled by love personally. Much as an appreciator of art might admire a landscape without wanting to visit the location, Lindir sighed and sobbed over tales of heartache and heartbreak both real and fictional without feeling the need to become involved.

The song the voice was singing would have fallen squarely into the Woeful Love category. It was one that Lindir knew well; it was mostly about the speaker trying and failing to court an oblivious love, going to increasingly absurd lengths in their efforts. There had been a time many years back when he had made a point of singing it whenever Erestor had entered the Hall of Fire, in the hopes of sparking some sort of epiphany about a state of affairs readily apparent to everyone else in the Valley bar said advisor. The situation had resolved itself eventually, but Lindir was still not sure if he had been responsible, though he liked to think so.

Round the next corner the corridor widened into a large plaza of the sort which really ought to contain fountains but sadly did not. Instead, it held several stone benches, on one of which was perched an Elf cradling a lute, who looked up as Lindir approached.

"Oh dear," said the Elf with a wince, and Lindir recognised the guard-captain that had met them at the gate the previous day. "I hope I have not disturbed you; I know my tuning leaves something to be desired."

"Oh, goodness, no", exclaimed Lindir, horrified that he might have caused offense. "Please, do not stop on my account."

"Alas," said Tirithalen, "I have reached the end of the song, at least as far as my memory serves. I feel sure there was another verse but it escapes me at present. No doubt I shall remember it in the middle of the night and awake frustrated."

"If you do, I should like to hear it,” said Lindir. “You sing from the heart, I perceive.”

"Aye, I do," replied the guard with a hint of sorrow, plucking a melancholic minor chord. "No matter. Eventually he will realise that I am not just teasing. But enough of my troubles. What brings you down here, if not my woeful minstrelsy?"

"I am in search of the kitchens," admitted Lindir. "Finding them has proven an interesting adventure."

"Ah," said Tirithalen, brightening. "Now that is a problem I _can_ solve!"

 

* * *

 

Bard was indeed in a meeting, and would be in a different one as soon as he was finished; so said Sigrid, consulting a large appointment book and looking slightly harassed.

“He could see you briefly this evening,” she offered. “Otherwise it must be two days hence.”

“This evening would suit, if it is not a chore,” said Erestor. “It is not a matter of life or death, but might be of significant personal import.” And he nodded almost imperceptibly in Tilda’s direction and hoped it would be understood.

Sigrid was quick on the uptake and had heard from her father of Thranduil’s offer of aid, so Erestor's meaning was plain.“Eight o’clock?” she suggested.

"That would do very well," replied Erestor, after a questioning glance at Glorfindel. "I thank you for your time."

"Come on," said Tilda, ushering them towards the door. "I'll give you the tour in the meantime."

"Be back by supper," called Sigrid from behind them. "Or I shall let Bain eat all of your pudding!"

"Oh, you're so mean."

  
  
Some time later, Erestor found himself once more alone with Tilda who was, he had to admit, really quite sweet and charming, even if she did have an uncanny ability to apparently read minds. After she had led them round the city, pointing out places of interest, they had retired to the Stick & Bucket, where the two of them were now lurking in a corner. Glorfindel had volunteered to fetch drinks and had seemingly forgotten this upon reaching the bar, being the sort of person who was unable to stop himself from starting conversations with perfect strangers. Erestor watched him joking with the regulars with a mixture of fondness and mild envy; casual discourse came to Erestor about as easily as pulling dragons’ teeth.

"You're an advisor, right?" asked Tilda, nudging his elbow gently, and he looked back to find her frowning in concern.

"I am," said Erestor, full of dread. Historically, that phrase had never preceded a request he had been remotely qualified to answer.

"Well, I need some advice. Can you keep a secret?"

People had been handing Erestor a lot of secrets lately. He wasn't keen on it. Still, the girl _did_ look distressed, and he _had_ been sent to help. "I believe I can."

"Only, it's not really my secret, but I don't know what to do."

Erestor had a sinking feeling he knew what she was going to say. "Whatever it is," he said anyway, "I will do my best to help."

Tilda smiled up at him, then sidled a bit closer along the bench. "I think Da fancies King Thranduil," she said softly.

 _Of course._ "Oh?" said Erestor, trying to sound as if this was of no import to him at all. "How can you tell?"

"A bit like you and Glorfindel, I suppose. He's mean about him, but in a nice way, and even though he complains about it a lot it's obvious he actually really likes going to see him. And then the other day King Thranduil let me ride back from Mirkwood with him and Da came home and saw him all in his handsome riding clothes and he went all red. He won't say anything, of course, but I reckon he really fancies him."

Erestor made what he hoped would be interpreted as a noise of polite interest.

Tilda looked around, then she leaned closer to Erestor and whispered, "And I think King Thranduil fancies Da quite a bit too."

"You are very wise in these matters, for one so young," said Erestor suspiciously.

"It's not special," said Tilda, making a face. "I know all about that stuff. Sigrid told me, back when Bain was walking out with Helga from the smithy. Anyway, I'm not that young. I'm going to be twelve in two weeks."

"Goodness," said Erestor in the tone he had often used when Estel had found a particularly gruesome insect and had brought it to him for admiration. And then, spotting an opportunity, he said, "What are you hoping to receive as a gift?"

The girl thought long and hard, her brow furrowed in contemplation. "I don't know," she said finally. "I don't really want anything in particular. I guess... I guess I'd really just like everything to go on as it is, and for Dale to be finished, and the new Laketown too. Oh, and for Da to be happy. He's been so much better these last few months, it's been really nice. I mean, he's a lot more stressed, but at least he's not sad. I think it's King Thranduil doing it. I really do hope they sort that out." She considered a little longer. "Actually, that's what I'd like for my birthday. I'd like one of them to ask the other one to walk out with them. I think they both want to, but they're too scared and shy to make the first move."

Erestor said nothing; he was becoming increasingly aware of the absurdity of the situation.

"Although," Tilda added thoughtfully, "I suppose I'd also quite like a pony."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lindir's song is to the tune of ["The Tricks of London"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=63-4ihTM1MA), the lyrics of which were adapted by Bob Johnson of Steeleye Span from various traditional nursery rhymes and ditties from the southern counties.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein plans are argued and revised. Also, Lindir gets unlost.

By the time Lindir and Tirithalen had finally reached the kitchens, they were fast friends. On the way they had compared preferred lute tunings, knowledge of songs about the fall of Númenor and wildly differing opinions concerning the appropriate arrangement of the Lays of Beleriand; in regard to the latter, Lindir was a traditionalist and insisted that they should be performed in their entirety, and Tirithalen thought it better that the audience was still awake by the end and hence that one should play only "the best bits", which seemed to be anything grotesquely violent or a bit rude.

The head cook, it turned out, was actually a pleasant lady named Rubiel, albeit one with very strong opinions on how her kitchen should be run. After Lindir had apologised, and explained their purpose, and favoured her with a winning smile, and apologised some more, and been extremely complimentary about her ginger biscuits, she was prepared to admit that her warm words to the king had been hasty and she would indeed be happy to organise a feast for Tilda's party. Of course, this then led on to an intense discussion of the proposed menu, and the discussion soon turned into a demonstration, in which Lindir was more than happy to be a test subject.

This was how it came that Galion walked into the kitchens to find Lindir with whipped cream on his nose hotly debating the benefits and disadvantages of various desserts with Tirithalen, who was wearing roughly a pound of icing sugar and looking very satisfied with life. Since they had also been sampling the wine selection at the same time, it was a rather giggly debate.

"Ah!" cried Tirithalen, gesturing to a spare chair with half a sticky cream bun. "Galion, do have a seat and inform my colleague that, contrary to his arguments, trifle is far preferable to sponge cake, firstly by way of its superior texture and more importantly due to its ability to contain vastly more sherry."

Galion did not deign to comment, though the thought of sherry trifle was indeed an appealing one. "You are required in the training grounds, Guard-Captain," he said, with particular emphasis on the title.

Tirithalen paused with the bun in mid-air. "Oh, sun and stars, I am. No rest for the wicked, I suppose. Still, I have contributed valuable wisdom to this venture. Here, you may finish this one for me."

Galion found his hands suddenly full of sticky bun. "You may wish to change," he suggested, though Tirithalen was already out the door, brushing off clouds of icing sugar on the way.

"I shall tell them it is camouflage," floated the guard's voice down the corridor. "They will never see it coming!"

Galion tried really quite hard not to smile and did not succeed, though he did go slightly red in the process.

"Oh," said Lindir behind him. And then, rather louder, "OH!"

And then, after another pause, "Wait, she is only twelve! We can't give her sherry trifle anyway!"

 

 

* * *

 

"There must be some way we can avoid it."

"I am afraid not, sire."

"I mean, it cannot be necessary, surely."

"I regret to say that it is, sire."

Thranduil gazed despondently down upon the provisional guest list.

"Could we just... not tell him?" he asked desperately.

"I am sorry, sire," said Galion. "But to not invite Dain would appear insulting, both to him personally and to the whole of Erebor by extension."

"We have been civil enough since the reclamation. Surely we could afford some small insult."

"You forget, sire, that you speak not for the Woodland Realm now, but for Dale, and whatever decision you make, good or ill, will reflect upon Bard," said Galion, scratching off the name of a minor dignitary and replacing it with another nigh-identical one. "I am sure you would not wish to inconvenience him," he added and noted with interest the way the tips of Thranduil's ears reddened.

"I suppose not," Thranduil conceded reluctantly. "Very well. We will invite the wretched Naugrim. But if we awake next day to find the city once more in ruins and my empty barrels gone, I shall know who to blame."

"Very good, sire," said Galion, and made a note in the margin to seat the two kings as far apart as etiquette could endure.

 

 

* * *

 

Bard was exhausted. He had had a long and tiresome day, most of which had been spent sat in meetings where a lot of old men and women argued about trivial things, which apparently was the form politics took nowadays. As such he was not exactly thrilled to discover that his elder daughter had booked him for post-dinner drinks with a pair of very odd Elves. And they were both very peculiar, though in truth the only Elf with whom he'd spent any substantial amount of time was Thranduil, so perhaps all Elves were thus. They probably thought he was strange too.

The dark-haired one definitely did. Bard had forgotten his name instantly upon being introduced, and indeed the Elf as a whole seemed to consist entirely of forgettable traits. He was polite, certainly, and well-schooled in courtly manners, but it was a carefully constructed politeness, as if he preferred the strict etiquette of politics to making casual conversation. He looked more like he belonged in a library--the sort with lots of dust and cobwebs and signs forbidding talking out loud.

He remembered Glorfindel's name, though, if only because Tilda had talked of nothing else all through dinner. Apparently he had killed a Balrog. Bard was sceptical of this claim. In fact, Bard was not at all sure that Balrogs were actually real. Balrogs and dragons in the same world seemed too much of a stretch. Either way, he was finding it difficult to imagine Glorfindel slaying one; the Elf seemed altogether too genial and light-hearted. He also had a staggering ability to keep conversations going.

It was not as if Glorfindel had talked continually since he had sat down, because that was not the case; Bard remembered saying a great deal himself. It was more that the Elf seemed so genuinely interested in every topic of conversation that Bard found himself spilling out all sorts of nonsense. Right now, for instance, he had just finished telling Glorfindel in great detail all about his family.

“You have done well with your little one,” said Glorfindel. “I have met Age-old Elf-lords less courteous and kind-hearted. Even Erestor was complimentary, and he is notoriously difficult to impress!” The dark-haired Elf gave a twitch of his mouth that might have counted as a smile to the generously-minded.

“I fear you give me too much credit,” admitted Bard. “Her sister has had as much of a hand in her upbringing as I have, if not more. You do as best you can, I suppose.” He hesitated, unsure if his next question was impolite; to him it seemed a natural thing to ask but perhaps these matters worked differently in Elven society. He decided to risk it for the sake of curiosity. “Do you have children of your own?”

Glorfindel chuckled, which was probably a good sign. “Alas, no. Circumstances seem to have precluded it, I am afraid.” Erestor made an odd noise behind his drink that Bard could not decipher, but Glorfindel paid it no heed. “I make do by borrowing the children of other people.”

“Sometimes he even remembers to return them,” said Erestor. His voice was as flat as ever, but Glorfindel laughed again as if it was an old and private jest. Bard was astonished; he had not thought that Erestor would even recognise a joke, let alone make one.

“Should I be concerned?” he asked.

“Fear not,” reassured Glorfindel with a grin, “Tilda is a dear little thing but I am not here to steal her away. Rivendell has not yet fully recovered from the antics of our last child and he is long grown now. Still, I am glad that she fares well here. She has made some very powerful friends!”

"King Thranduil has been very kind to us, and to Tilda especially," he said, and tried to stop his voice sounding too wistful. Neither of the Elves remarked on it, so hopefully it wasn't obvious.

“He speaks highly of you,” commented Erestor. “That is, I am told, unusual.”

Bard managed to prevent his “Indeed?” coming out as a squeak but could not keep the heat from rising in his cheeks. He hoped that it looked like a result of the drink. He took another gulp of wine and reminded himself that even Elves must forget things eventually.

Hopefully.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"This is absurd," exclaimed Erestor to Glorfindel in their chambers that night, having finally snapped and divulged the collection of assorted secrets that had been handed to him over the course of the last couple of days. "They each love the other, and this is glaringly obvious to everyone except them! How can two people be so oblivious?"

"I hate to bear such ill tidings," lied Glorfindel, "but I am reliably informed that Lord Elrond said something very similar about us, once."

Erestor subsided a little at this. "We must devise a plan," he said with a sigh. "The girl has named her gift and we should make every effort to procure it for her. There is little doubt now that the feeling is mutual. So, the task now becomes how to convince two very stubborn but timid individuals to confess their love to each other."

"I've found that even the most stubborn tongue can be loosened by the threat of mortal danger," said Glorfindel cheerfully. "Have you considered another orc attack?"

"I was hoping for an idea that involved a smaller likelihood of grievous injury."

"Oh."

There was a long silence as both Elves contemplated the futility of their assignment.

"There is one we might ask for assistance," said Glorfindel cautiously.

Erestor looked at Glorfindel. Glorfindel raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, no," said Erestor. "No, no, absolutely not."

"I can see no alternative but to admit defeat and simply buy the poor girl a pony. Admit, my dear Erestor, we are woefully under-equipped to orchestrate such a scheme. We need someone whose life's work is the purveying of stories of romance as wild and ridiculous as this one is shaping up to be."

Erestor pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture reminiscent of Lord Elrond on a particularly bad day. "Glorfindel, dearest beloved, light of mine existence, you were not paying attention when I said that this venture must remain secret. If we are to welcome yet another co-conspirator, they should be one of subtlety and cunning. I am sure Lindir is simply bursting with good intentions, but his idea of subtlety was spending a fortnight singing _O I Am A Poor Lovesick Maid_ whenever he was within twenty paces of me."

"Oh, so you did notice!"

"It was difficult not to, after the first three performances."

"If it is any consolation," said Glorfindel, laying a gentle hand on Erestor's shoulder, "I had _My True Love's Hair is Black as Coal_ for three weeks."

A smile fought its way bravely onto Erestor's face,though it met great opposition. It would have required a truly heroic effort for Glorfindel to stop himself from kissing it, so he did not bother.

"Very well," said Erestor finally, having been suitably mollified. "We will engage the services of our chief minstrel. But know that if this fails in a spectacular fashion, as I fear it will, I shall be moving to Far Harad."

"In that case," said Glorfindel, "I had best learn how to ride a mûmak."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a council is held, and important political issues are discussed.

In his capacity as advisor to Elrond Half-elven, Erestor had over the years attended, chaired and, in one memorable instance, spied upon many clandestine meetings. None of them, however, had been for such a peculiar purpose, nor attracted so strange a collection of conspirators. They had also never before included a talking Raven.

“Cuwôdh is long known to me,” Galion had explained. “She can be trusted not to betray us.”

“My beak is sealed,” agreed the Raven, who had taken up residence on the back of Galion's chair.

To Galion's right sat the newest member of their council. Lindir had been absolutely ecstatic to be invited into the group. When Erestor had explained the purpose of their mission the minstrel had grinned so widely and sighed so deeply that Erestor had worried that he might swoon.

“I knew it,” he had declared wistfully, after several seconds of heartfelt gazing into the distance with one hand pressed to his breast. “The way he spoke of Bard when we met with him, it was plain in his voice... but they will not dare speak of it to each other? Oh, what a beautiful and tragic story! We must help, Erestor, we simply must.”

Next to Lindir and surrounded by paper and ink was Glorfindel, who had offered to minute the discussion. Erestor had been surprised to discover that Glorfindel enjoyed writing lists of things, but then much less surprised that the resulting lists were completely illegible to anyone but Glorfindel himself, and also featured irrelevant notes and doodles in the margins. Considering the confidential nature of their subject matter, however, perhaps that was for the best this time.

Erestor knocked on the table to call the meeting to order. It wasn't necessary, but he felt he should maintain some semblance of propriety.

"I am sure we are all aware of the reason for this meeting," he began. "In short, the situation is this: King Thranduil and Bard of Dale are enamoured of each other, but will not speak their minds for fear of rejection. Our mission, which I stress must remain of the utmost secrecy both to the aforesaid parties and to the general public, is to ensure that the situation resolves itself in a mutually satisfactory manner."

"Forgive me for what must seem a foolish and obvious question," said Glorfindel, "but, before we begin, are we absolutely certain that your premise is correct? That Bard and King Thranduil are indeed in love but will not speak of it?"

"That the King harbours great affection for Bard, I can confirm," said Galion. "I have heard as much from his own mouth."

"And Bard’s daughter Tilda seems convinced that the feeling is reciprocated," agreed Erestor. "I will admit that the intuition of a little girl may be tenuous but she seems earnest enough."

"Nah, she's definitely right, I'm sure of it." Cuwôdh fluttered from the chair-back to the table. "You may not have seen the way the bowman looks at His Nibs, but I have, and half the rookery too. He's head over heels for him, or I'm a crested pheasant."

Glorfindel held up his hands. "Very well, I am convinced."

"Now that is settled," said Erestor, "we need a plan. Where should we even begin?"

"You people don't really build nests, do you?" asked Cuwôdh. "When I began courting Varac I invited him to look at my nest and asked if he wanted to help."

"I think Bard has probably had enough help with his 'nest' by now," said Glorfindel.

"Well, what about gifts? In our culture presenting your intended with food is guaranteed to please."

Erestor snorted. "Indeed, because nothing says 'Be mine' like a dead rodent."

"No, no, I think she has a point," put in Lindir. "In the song _Clumsy Katie,_ popular with the folk of the Bree-lands, the singer offers the lovely if ungainly Katie all manner of fine gifts to prove their adoration.”

“And does it work?” asked Galion.

“Well, no,” admitted Lindir. “In the usual version, Katie is so clumsy that she breaks or loses all of the gifts and finally rides away on her last present, a horse, leaving the singer behind, heart broken beyond repair. But,” he added quickly, seeing the faces of his co-conspirators, “there is an alternative final verse originating from the village of Combe east of Bree, where Katie returns the remains of the gifts to the singer saying that they were unnecessary, that all she truly wanted was the singer’s love.”

There was silence in the council as its members considered this.

“Cor,” said Cuwôdh. “How do they come up with these things?”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t understand why I need a new dress,” complained Tilda to the mirror.

“For the party, you silly thing,” said Sigrid, appearing from the side and holding something blue and frilly up in front of her sister. “Some of the guests are coming from leagues and leagues away. They’ve never been to Dale before. We need to make a good impression.”

Tilda pulled a face at her reflection. “But I don’t want a new dress. I want to wear the red one with the green ribbons.”

Sigrid sighed. “Tilly, that dress doesn’t even reach your knees anymore, you’ve grown so much. You need a new one.” The blue monstrosity went onto the pile of failures.

“I don’t like any of these,” said Tilda. “They’ve all got too much lace, and I hate lace, it makes me itch. I want something like what King Thranduil wears. He always looks so elegant and he does it without any lace at all.”

Sigrid gave her sister a despairing look and turned to the poor travelling tailor, who had been standing to one side wringing his hands progressively more nervously for the last half an hour. “Do you have anything in velvet?”

The tailor looked pained. “My apologies, my lady,” he said. “My clients usually prefer their young ladies to wear plain taffetas. I have never had occasion to dress a young lady in so heavy a fabric.”

“A fine damask might do,” said Sigrid desperately.

“Again, my lady, I must apologise, I have nothing of the sort… wait!” He held up a quivering finger with an expression of relief. “I may have one item in the wagon which might suit.”

“And I bet these are all really expensive, too,” said Tilda as the tailor hurried out of the hall. “That just doesn’t seem right. Some of the people in town don’t have even one nice dress, and here I am with all these fancy clothes that I don’t even like.”

"I know," said her sister. "But that's what happens when your da becomes important. We need to look the part or people who are actually important won't take us seriously. Would you trust a king who holds court with holes in the back of his trousers?"

"I suppose not..." said Tilda reluctantly.

“Well, there you are, then.” Sigrid turned back to the pile of discarded dresses to see if any warranted a second viewing.

Tilda shifted awkwardly on the fitting stool. “Sig,” she said cautiously.

Her sister made a questioning noise from amid the jumble of ruffles.

“Do you think Da will ever get married again?”

For a moment it seemed that Sigrid was too preoccupied with her work to answer. Then she straightened up, though she didn’t look at Tilda at first. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Do you want him to?”

“I don’t know,” Sigrid said again. “Politically speaking, it would be a good idea. But…”

“But you don’t want someone to replace Ma.”

“It’s easier for you,” said Sigrid. “You were so little when she died, you barely even remember her.”

Tilda twisted the hem of her skirt guiltily. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I suppose I just… I just want Da to be happy.”

“So do I, Tilly,” Sigrid sighed. “So do I.”

There was a polite cough from behind them. The tailor had returned.

"I beg your pardon, my lady, young miss, but I do have this. It was made for a young gentleman, but upon delivery it was decided that it did not suit. With a few alterations..." He held up a hanger.

Tilda's eyes grew wide, her poor mood gone in a flash. "Oh, it's perfect!"

 

* * *

 

"Perhaps," said Galion, a little unsteadily, "perhaps, we could just lock them in a room and leave them until they sort it out on their own." He had opened the first bottle some time previously. Things had gone rapidly downhill after that.

"Nooo, no no no," mumbled Lindir into his empty glass. "Very bad plan. Tried that in _The Ploughboy and the Palmer's Son_."

"What happened?" asked Galion.

"Everyone died," said Lindir sorrowfully, reaching for the wine. " _Everyone_."

Glorfindel crossed the last item off his list. Erestor took the paper from him and gloomily surveyed the work of the last two hours. Glorfindel's handwriting, usually untidy, had become progressively more meaningless as the meeting had progressed. The only easily legible item was halfway down the page, where Glorfindel had written "ORCS" in bold strokes, underlined it three times and then circled it for good measure. Erestor sighed.

“These are all awful ideas,” he said. “Especially the one involving the orcs.”

“That was my favourite,” complained Cuwôdh.

Galion passed Erestor the last bottle of wine. Erestor emptied it into his glass.

“There is nothing else for it,” he said. “We are just going to have to try them all.”

“Even the one with the orcs?” said Cuwôdh hopefully.

“Except the one with the orcs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bree-land folk song _Clumsy Katie_ mentioned by Lindir has a [real-life counterpart with a strangely familiar title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SyFc-pbcO94) .


End file.
